I stared through the open gap in
the airport wall where pushed luggage was appearing.

“C’mon,
they said it would be here. C’mon!”

Suitcases. Beige, black and yellow.
Backpacks of all colors. Industrial travel boxes. But no pistachio-colored
duffel bag, the receptacle for a borrowed $500 camera and all of my damn
clothes.

Sweat from the stress and
disappointment greased my already filthy t-shirt and jeans as I watched with
sinking dread as more and more bags were shoved around the racetrack.

“It
ain’t coming today.”

I had communicated to the people at
Jatun Sacha shortly after my arrival on Sunday that I would need to taxi back
to town the following morning to reclaim my bag. The airline people had told me
it was coming in then, and I was wishfully hopeful they were telling the truth.
I had worn the same clothes through five airports, two nations and a sweaty
island hike.

At 8 a.m. on Monday morning Marc and
I burned another twenty rumbling 45 minutes back to town. I walked up to the
airport to check flight times. The day’s flight was landing around 1 pm, so we
had a few hours to kill in town.

We taxied to a beach close to Puerto
Baquerizo Moreno and got our first taste of the islands’ biological
idiosyncrasy. Unafraid sea lions lounged on the beach, occasionally dipping
into the ocean to cool off and swim. Rigid marine iguanas crawled over the
spiky, volcanic rocks. Blue-footed boobies and prominent pelicans scanned the
waves, hunting for their next underwater target. Sunbathing travelers hiked
around and snapped pictures. Out on one of the beach’s jutting points, a sea
lion slept curled-up on the bright red indoor staircase of a retired
lighthouse. To the west, the town’s harbor
looked jammed with touristy skiffs, luxury cruises and an industrial freighter.
As an overall spectacle, it was a bizarre array of ecology, modernity and tourism.

After a few hours, we walked back
into town. Marc elected to explore more, eager to harvest some footage. I
lumbered back up to the airport for the third time in two days and watched as
happy travelers claimed their luggage.

My bag didn’t come.

Angry, I walked back into town. On
my way, a tropical rainstorm struck with immediacy, soaking the island and any of
its outdoor inhabitants. It felt refreshing to have some of the grime washed
from my clothes, but my mood still mirrored the dark clouds trembling over my
head.

I walked into the lobby of the
mint-green Hotel Northia, a partner of the Jatun Sacha camp. Ruth, a Swiss lady
helping out at the hotel, said she would check the airport for me tomorrow so I
wouldn’t have to taxi back and forth again.

Ruth turned out to be godsend
during our week in the islands. Fluent in several languages, she helped Marc
and I navigate several tricky situations made even more difficult due our
absent knowledge of basic Spanish (Marc studied the language a few years in
high school and could comprehend a few words here and there; I knew little more
than “hola,” “gracias” and “buenos.”).

Ruth said one of the locals
affiliated with the camp was friends with a fisherman, and that they could try
and organize an interview for later in the week. I was extremely thankful – any
progress on a potential story was promising, especially considering our remote
home location in the forest.

Another truck transported us back
to the camp, where we donned mosquito nets and began assisting Chicho with
filling up Big Gulp-sized bags of soil. Mateo, his two year-old son, and Ariel,
his 12 year-old nephew, also helped with process.

It was fascinating watching little
Mateo stumble with a bag of soil the size of his torso over to the area where
they were being stockpiled. Chicho didn’t force Mateo to do any work, and he
spent a good portion of his time bounding playfully around the area like any
giggling toddler should.

However, he already seemed to be
instilled with the value to contribute. Everyone was stuffing these little
black bags – the two German volunteers, Ariel, Chicho, Marc and I – and Mateo
didn’t want to be any different. Watching him, I realized as a young child he
would already be well-versed in the ability to work hard – a virtue I wasn’t
literate in until my mid-teens.

Lidia, the camp administrator,
loaned me some random articles of clothing left behind by previous volunteers.
It felt nice to be in a fresh t-shirt and clean jeans, but I was still worried
about the camera.

Later that night, while playing
cards with the two German gals, a huge crash reverberated throughout the
forest. Marc, the two Germans and I ran down to where the sound originated from
– the lean-to shed we had sat and filled bags in for several hours earlier in
the day. It was leveled to the ground, collapsed under the stormy night wind.

Glad
that didn’t happen while we were sitting under it.

The next morning we prepped to
continue the war with Mora. Machetes were sharpened, black boots were dusted
off, gloves were slid on. As we began to march up the hill to the front lines,
the camp’s landline phone rang. Lidia indicated it was for me.

Ruth’s voice crackled through the
speaker phone.

“Co-nore, the airline people said
your bag will hopefully come in today,” she said. “If it does, I will send it
up with a taxi.”

A bit relieved (but far from
certain), I caught up to my fellow machete-wielders and began the morning hack.
The sun was undiluted and hungry as we cut our way through white, jagged Mora
branches dominating the hillside. Our arms bled from a cacophony of small-needled
cuts and ripped-open mosquito bites. The work was difficult but also tangibly
rewarding. Looking back, you could admire the decapitated path you carved through
the pest plant.

After a few hours we retreated for
lunch and a break. In the afternoon, Lidia offered us two options – we could
begin rebuilding the storm-crushed shed or hike to one of the highest points on
the island. Eager to enjoy and film a 360-degree panorama, we all elected for
the hike.

Marc hiked with his camera in hand,
running back and forth along the trail to get shots of the hikers and the environment.
I lugged the tri-pod over my shoulder, hopeful the peak would offer a good
landscape for some elegant stand-ups.

It wasn’t any easy jaunt. Pressed
against a sharp, often muddy incline, we hiked for well over an hour, at times
crouched through cutting, overhead brush. Occasionally, Chicho would hoist
Ariel on his shoulders, lifting him above the brush line to ensure we were
climbing in the right direction.

As we neared the pinnacle, a thick
film of stony clouds rolled in, reducing our view to a few dozen yards. At the
top I unslung the tripod and planted myself in the caked dirt, gazing at the
mass of grey in every direction.

Of
course.

Marc and I were reduced to laughing.
The fog had cemented the idea of a trip that seemed doomed by a string of
small, compounding misfortunes. After sitting in the light rain for a few minutes,
we deduced the clouds weren’t in the mood to leave anytime soon and decided to
walk back down the slope.

Partway down we broke through the
cloud layer and smiled at the refreshing view of blue ocean. It wasn’t the
peak, but it was something. Marc propped up the tri-pod and snagged of the few
shots of the south-central coastline. We took what we could get.

After hiking back through the area we
cleared of Mora, we stopped and lounged in the open-air dining hall, tired from the
expedition. From the edge of my perspective I witnessed Fernanda coming down
the other hill from her living quarters. She was carrying something.

YES!

I ran up to her, smiling. She
beamed and handed me my duffel bag, camera and all. I hi-fived her and joyously
hoisted the bag above my head, exalting in the happiness of one gained comfort.

Monday, March 23, 2015

“Aloha” can mean “hello” or “goodbye.” English has no
shortage of words that can have drastically different meanings, depending on
the context. I’m sure the same goes for other languages.

But I don’t think there’s a phrase that can match the
functional diversity of Costa
Rica’s favorite saying, “Pura vida,” which literally
translates to “Pure life.”

The phrase has been around for as long as locals can
remember. According to Ignasio, one of the tour guides I spent some time with
this week, it can be used in any situation
and can have any meaning, depending
on how you say it.

For example, he said if someone asks how the food is, you
could answer “Pura vida!” enthusiastically and have it mean “good.” If it’s
bad, though, you could make a face and whine, “Pura vida….”

It’s also a greeting, farewell and response to questions
like, “How are you?”

As I spent my last day with LAST, I thought about how
fitting “pura vida” is to describe this country and its inhabitants. Everyone
seems so calm and relaxed. Though the drivers are un poco loco, all the honking
is what Selena perfectly described as “happy honking.” I never saw anyone shout
at anyone else or act unkindly.

The people who visit Costa Rica adopt the pure life
quickly, judging by my experiences with the other volunteers.

A friendly game of soccer while waiting on the beach.

When it was time to say our goodbyes, I was sad. No, we
hadn’t caught any turtles, but honestly, that would have just been the cherry
on top of a fantastic week.

I learned so much about local culture, met people who have
never been outside of Costa
Rica and talked to others who have traveled
the world. I saw animals and plants that I’d only read about or watched on TV. I
tried so many new foods and, even though I couldn’t identify the ingredients in
most of them without asking our host mom, I loved them all (with the exception
of plantains. Plantains and I will never be friends).

While the Murrow College sent me to Costa Rica to report, I’ll be going
home with so much more than a video package. Thanks to the generosity of my
school, my entire outlook on life has changed. I stepped outside of my comfort
zone and embraced adventure. I’m so grateful for this incredible experience.

And more struggles
fun with espanol.

Hannah Ray Lambert

3/18/15

Today I made a list of all the ways my basic knowledge of
Spanish has come in handy so far. Really, it started helping within minutes of
arriving in Costa Rica,
when I had to pass through immigration. It helped with buses and taxis,
finding wifi in public places, ordering food and talking with the non-English
speaking members of LAST. It’s also helped me feel like less of a stereotypical
tourist. I stick out enough with my blonde hair. There’s no need for me to draw
more attention to myself by bumbling my way through every interaction with a
local.

The most valuable bilingual experience I have had here,
though, is with our host family. Being able to communicate with our host mom
and her two daughters has arguably been the richest part of this experience.

Yesterday I talked with Griselda, 18, about the educational
system in Costa Rica
as well as her career/schooling goals. Today, Griselda and her younger sister,
Yahaira, gave me a tour of the property. They showed me their garden and all
the diverse, naturally growing fruit trees around the house including – but
certainly not limited to – guavas, mangos, plantains, a type of apple and
coconuts.

The latter fruit led to the title of this post. Using my
broken Spanish, I tried to say that coconut has a lot of uses in the United States,
one of those being flour.

Trying to explain flour (since I didn’t know the Spanish
word for it) was a five-minute endeavor, even with Selena’s help. I’m pretty
sure we got there eventually, though.

After dinner, Selena and I spent more than two hours talking
with the family (and playing dominoes with Yorleni). Yahaira showed us her
drawings and drew portraits of us.

Selena braiding Yahaira's hair one morning before school.

She also had us help her study for her English test
tomorrow.

Now, I always knew English was a silly, unnecessarily
complicated language. However, trying to explain why “l” and double “ll” make
the same sound to a sixth grade Costa Rican student really drove that point home.
I’m incredibly lucky to have learned this crazy language from infancy;
otherwise I don’t think I’d ever have the patience to figure it out.

Yahaira would read something (in English) like, “May I talk
to Maria?” and then look at us for approval.

In Spanish, I would answer, “Si. Pero es ‘may,’ no ‘my.’”

She used her limited knowledge of English and I used my
barely-functional Spanish.

It was a truly beautiful moment.

Griselda, Yorleni and Yahaira with the Cougar flag.

Not relevant to this post, but this is the family gatita. She's so small I thought she was a kitten, but she's actually the mama cat. People don't typically feed their cats in Costa Rica, so they have to work a lot harder for their food than my cats do.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

After waiting at the San Cristobal airport for an hour or
so, we hopped in a truck taxi and rumbled 45 minutes across a winding dirt road
to the center of the island, dense tree foliage and huge, leafy plants lining
the edges on either side (if you didn’t guess, that’s foreshadowing). The white
truck climbed partway up the slope of San Cristobal’s volcano. It was the heart
of the forest.

We were heading to a nonprofit volunteer camp called Jatun
Sacha. Its focus was on habitat reforestation. Hardy volunteers and even
hardier full-time employees planted constructive vegetation, cut back invasive
weeds and lived simply, enjoying time spent not working with hot meals and
hammock-based naps.

The volunteers’ primary enemy was a nasty plant known in
Spanish as Mora, otherwise referred to as the common blackberry bush. Mora has devastated
San Cristobal, destroying habitats and making it difficult for farmers to plant
homegrown crops. The camp’s administrator, Lidia, informed us (through a
translator) that the bush had covered 70 percent of the island’s landscape less
than 20 years ago. Organizations like Jatun Sacha and agencies like the
Galapagos National Park have reduced that percentage, but it is still very
prevalent.

Jatun Sacha was the end of the road, and its volunteers represented
the front lines of attack against Mora on the south central section of the
island. Volunteers would often spend their mornings and afternoons hacking at the
sharp-needled plant with machetes, mosquito-netted hats protecting their faces
from bites and their scalps from the harsh island sun.

It’s going to be hard
to write a story from up here.

The camp consisted of several open-air wooden and bamboo
structures. Our lodging was a two-story building with a large second-floor deck
and several partitioned rooms, each with a mosquito net-protected bed. That was
a necessity. The bugs swarmed with fury.

No work was required of us the first afternoon. One of the
regular workers, Chicho, led us on a creek-scaling hike through the forest. He
didn’t speak any English and we spoke even less Spanish, but we managed to
forge some communication.

Chicho, 26, lives at the camp with his partner, Fernanda,
20, and their giggling 2-year-old child, Mateo. Chicho has lived in the
Galapagos his whole life and has worked at Jatun Sacha for two months. He’d
been employed in several other hard labor fields previously, and his face and
stride portrayed the hard-nosed toughness of a man unafraid to sweat.

At one point during the hike, Chicho stopped and looked at an
overhanging tree. He saw something.

Raising his worn machete, he cut down a small, perched
guava. He sliced off the rounded ends and then split it in half, investigating
its contents. Not satisfied, he tossed it and cut another, repeating the
process. This one seemed to meet his requirements, and he handed the split
fruit to Marc and me.

“Guava,” he said.

It tasted amazing. I was snacking on guava probably around
30 steps earlier in the process than I ever had before.

We continued the tiring hike, sweat bleeding through my only
set of clothes (I was hopeful my bag would arrive the next morning). First we
trekked to a mid-sized waterfall and then a hillside vista, overlooking one
corner of the island. Sandwiched between draping clouds and milky blue ocean,
the horizon was indistinguishable and captivating.

On the way back Chicho once again paused, eyeing a piece of
fruit hanging from a tall tree to the left of the trail. This one was out of
reach. He turned to his right and sliced down a long branch from a different
tree. After skinning the branch of splintering limbs, he cut it into three
sections.

Fwoop! Chicho javelined the first piece of branch towards
the fruit, missing but shaking up the branch. Fwoop! The second one made
contact, almost severing it from its perch. Fwoop! As if predestined, the third
cleanly knocked the fruit from its limb. Satisfied, Chicho wordlessly tromped
off the trail and picked up the prize.

“Agua,” he said, pointing at the machete. I dribbled some of
the water out of my bottle and he spread it over the blade. Then he quartered
the fruit – a rotund, yellowish orange.

Again, he handed the contents to Marc and me. I handed a
section back to him.

“Here,” I said, laughing. “You’re the one who actually
deserves this.”

Smiling, he took the slice of orange and lifted it appreciatively
for a short second. Then he turned and continued hiking down the trail. In an
effort to not get left behind, Marc and I inhaled our sections – again, they
tasted amazing.

Not to say that all or any of the sentiments are untrue.
Clichés become so for a reason. Yet, as a group, they seem to exist in the
worlds of how and should, while travel itself just is.

Academia and career fields ask and answer with how and should. That is how they operate successfully, how one learns to
navigate their difficult and unforgiving waters with grace.

But apart from the blending routine of work and play, a
journey just is something, without a
systemized input, output or road map.

Mining any benefit from it involves experiencing that something. Something forking the
straight road of stagnancy, forcing the mind to adapt to the unseen and
unknown. Something more salient than the plodding circulation of academic work
weeks and boozy weekends. Something activating your sense as a human being,
alive and absorbing. Something that is.

This week has been something.

We didn’t sleep on Friday night, electing to depart Pullman
at three in the morning to catch a 7 a.m. flight out of Spokane. Jitters and
last-minute tasks kept me awake until my alarm sung at 2:30.

The airport security guards were amused at our destination.

“Galapagos Islands? How in the hell you swing that one?”

Obviously they didn’t peg us as security threats.

The Delta gate was surprisingly crowded. Midwesterners
heading home for spring break. The fully caffeinated desk lady kept chirping
into the intercom.

“We have a full flight, ladies and gentlemen,” she said.
“That means we need people to volunteer their bags for checking. It will be
free! Please do so, because we’ll need to do it anyways and this will speed up
the boarding process.”

I looked at my bulging duffel bag.

This ain’t making it
on the plane, I thought.

The elderly lady sitting next to me agreed.

“Just check it,” she said. “It’ll be easier.”

I lumbered over to the gate, duffel in hand. It held my
sleeping bag, all of my clothing and one of the Murrow College’s cameras, on
loan to me (approx. value: $500) for the week. The mustached baggage man
reached out to tag my luggage. I didn’t relinquish it immediately.

“I’m going to Quito, Ecuador,” I said. “You think this’ll
make it there alright?”

“Oh yeah, no problem,” the baggage man replied. “What you
taking, three flights? Yeah, it’ll it get to… whatever that place is. Can’t
pronounce it.”

Our flights ate the duration of the day. Spokane to
Minneapolis, Minneapolis to Atlanta, Atlanta to Quito. It was 10:30 pm by the
time we cleared Ecuadorean customs. Finally, our first real destination. Just
had to swoop my bag on the way out.

“Conor De-Vitt, please report to baggage claim immediately.”

Shit.

My bag didn’t make it. Of course. Delayed by a day, set to
arrive the next night in Quito.

“But I’m leaving for the Galapagos tomorrow morning!” I said
to the baggage clerk, nervous sweat setting fire to my forehead.

“It’s okay,” he said. “We send it there. We’ve done it
before.”

The clerk filled out a yellow slip and asked for a number to
call.

“I don’t have one that works in the Southern hemisphere,” I
replied.

He penned a few digits on the back of the slip.

“You call tomorrow,” he said. “Need to call to confirm.”

And that was begrudgingly it. I assumed there was a 50
percent chance I’d ever see my bag again. Marc and I left the airport and met
up with the people arranged to take us into Quito, a local university student
and his father.

We zipped along the Ecuadorean highway, central streetlights
making the curving road look like a nighttime ski run at Snoqualmie Pass. After
40 minutes, we entered boxy Quito and pulled up at an apartment building.

We took the matchbox elevator to the 8th floor.
Our host, Olga, was waiting for us. After dancing for a minute in what seemed
like a glacier-fed shower, I fell asleep wearing a pair of Marc’s shorts and no
shirt, feeling a bit under-clothed in the foreign night.

We slept for about five hours and then scarfed a breakfast
of mango juice and eggs. Olga’s husband quickly drove us back to the airport,
90’s American pop music blasting from his USB plug-in.

I had to figure my shit out before departing for San
Cristobal Island. I tried dialing the yellow baggage slip’s two numbers on a
payphone. Dead ends. Checked my e-mail on a pay computer. Nothing. Couldn’t
find any Delta employees working yet on check in.

I combed the airport for offices, finding a secure hallway
with signs pointing to the Delta office. Blazing past a security guard with
rushed, butchered Spanglish, I found Delta’s door and knocked.

A young man in a suit answered and assured me they would
route my duffel to San Cristobal. It would arrive tomorrow, probably early in
the morning. I was partially convinced.

At 10 a.m., we boarded the plane to the islands. Our carry-on luggage
was fumigated on the way, hopefully preventing the unwanted taxi service of any
invasive species.

Three hours later, we landed. The island looked fairly
desolate, but the pungent Pacific air tasted sweet and breezy. Marc and I hi-fived
on the tarmac. We’d made it.

The second day of sunburn is the worst. It is bad when you
start to feel it in the shower after a day in the sun but once it’s all settled
and gets comfortable it hurts. I have only been sunburned two times in my life
prior to Costa Rica. The Costa Rican sun did me well. People warned me but I
thought I was immune. Definitely a lesson to be learned for the future. I
reapplied sunblock every other hour today and will continue this until I am
back in the States.

Before I left for Costa Rica my uncle told me to make sure I
say “Pura Vida” while I was here. I was not sure what he was talking about
until I heard people saying it like a greeting. I asked one of the sea turtle
teachers what it meant but she was not sure. I also asked our host family if
they knew where it came from, but no one seems to know where it comes from. It
is a mystery that I am going to try to solve once I get back to the city and
have internet access.

Today we measured and planted mangrove trees. They are the only tree that lives in salt water. It is very crucial for
these trees to be planted because the turtles feed off them. There are also lots
of other creatures that live in the trees that are vital to nature like snakes
and birds.

The planting was nothing too exciting. It was just a lot of
hard work and digging. I definitely hope that I will be able to get a good
night’s rest. Tomorrow is our last day volunteering and we get to spend it out
on the boat again. Hopefully we will actually see a few turtles this time!

Rise and shine! We had our first day of work today with LAST
(Latin American Sea Turtles) and our alarms went off at 5:50 a.m.

Our host mom made us a great desayuno and then took us by
bike to La Playa Blanca. Biking to work gave us a chance to really take in La Palma. Shops were already opening their doors and people were off to work. It’s a very small town and, as we discovered
this evening on our way home, there is no wifi anywhere. So, you are most likely
reading this at least three days from now.

At the volunteer site, we had a quick introduction to the
project, then donned our swimsuits and got on the boat.

(La Playa Blanca in the morning. This will all be covered in water soon)

Pascal and Audrey Chabanne led the group, since they’ve been here for
two months already. Pascal is the resident vet. Both are originally from France, but
have been traveling the world since August 2012. In one month they plan to
visit Africa.

(Margit is a graphic designer from Germany. She'll be traveling to Mexico after her time with LAST ends)

Besides myself and Selena, there is a woman from Germany named Margit as well as a whole family
from Canada.
They won the trip from a “granola bar” company, which also sent a couple
representatives along. That group is guided by Brad, who is from – drum roll
please – Beaverton, Oregon.

Selena and I got our workout in helping set the net in the
water. Researchers at LAST use gillnets to catch the turtles so they can take
them out, measure them, check their trackers (or insert trackers if they don’t
have any), and collect tissue samples.

The current was unusually strong today according to
Pascal. So even though we were swimming really hard, we could barely move along
the net. Finally, it was in place and we all headed to the beach.

Where we waited.

And waited.

It was a great place to wait, though. Brad led a group of us
into the jungle to look at a pair of scarlet macaws. We saw all sorts of
vegetation too, from coconuts and almond trees to the ever-present plantains.

Selena and I also visited a newly planted portion of
mangrove. Audrey said they are trying to grow the mangrove (trees that live in subtropical tidal areas) because it is a critical part of the ecosystem. Audrey said six species
of mangrove grow in Costa Rica. They are the only trees
that can convert saltwater into freshwater.

(Adult mangrove in the back, saplings in the front)

They also provide food for sea turtles and allow sea grass
(another turtle meal) to grow.

Basically, these trees are important. But for whatever
reason they’ve decreased in number. Another part of LAST’s research involves
figuring out why that is. For now, though, they’re working on bringing them
back. Tomorrow, Selena and I will be helping.

All in all it was a great first official day in Osa - though we did not catch any turtles. The
only other drawback?

Despite applying sun block three times, the majority of my
body still resembles a fire truck. Fingers crossed that it turns into a tan
soon!

At 7:50 a.m. it became painfully clear that we would not
make our 8 a.m. bus to Osa. We sat in a stationary line of cars and buses,
watching helplessly as motorcycles zipped past us.

Having an extra three hours at the bus station wasn’t an
entire waste, though. It gave me the opportunity to have my second of these
delicious confections in as many days.

I don’t know what exactly this is, but it is now my sole
mission to figure out how to make it a regular part of my life. There’s some
sort of maple frosting between the layers. Delicioso.

We set up camp in this restaurant next to the bus station.
Selena and I traded off watching the stuff so we could explore without lugging
everything with us.

Photogenic pup in San Jose.

Finally, the next (and final) bus arrived to take us to Osa. The scenery started to change. A lot. After rolling through the narrow streets packed with colorful buildings, the bus wound through curving mountain roads. From there on, it was all green.

Eight hours later, we reached our final destination for the
week. Tomorrow, we start work with Latin American Sea Turtles!

Thursday, March 19, 2015

Today was our last day in La Palma and Playa Blanca working
with the sea turtle conservation group. I am excited to go back home and finish
up the school year but at the same time I am sad to leave this beautiful
country.

We went out to the beach again to find turtles to save but
unfortunately we struck out again. We waited for six hours but no turtles. We
got to relax on the beach instead which was nice. The weather was not that
great though. It began to rain after we set our net and made our way to shore.
I can say that will probably be the only time I wear a swimsuit in the rain.

As I was swimming today I also got bit or stung by some sea
creature. It stung like a shot at the
doctor’s office for a good 10 seconds then went away. We were never able to
figure out what it was but the biologist on site said it could have been a baby
jellyfish. I can now say I’ve been stung by a jellyfish, right?

It was tough saying bye to everyone at the sea turtle
project but I am glad for my time here. This was a great opportunity I thought
I would never have, but thanks to the Murrow College I am able to do projects
like these.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

As long as I am in Costa Rica I will never go hungry. Our
host mother provided us with a hearty breakfast, filling lunch to go, and had
an amazing dinner waiting for us when we got home. I may never want to leave
just because I know I would not have to cook for myself ever again.

After breakfast, our host mom rode down to the beach with
Hannah and me just so we can familiarize ourselves with the route. We rode
behind houses on grass and on rocky dirt roads. We knew we hit the main part of
the town when we reached paved roads and knew we were close to the beach when
the road turned back to gravel. As we rode along we passed a house that grew a
lot of different fruits like bananas, papaya, and pineapple. I did not know
pineapples grew on the ground until we passed that house. I think it looks so odd
to see a pineapple growing on a plant. It looked like someone strategically
placed the pineapple there. I
always pictured pineapples growing on a tree. I was so very wrong.

Pineapples grow on a plant that looks like this.

Our first day on the Osa Turtle Project was a success. After
a brief orientation on the day’s work, we got on a boat and went out on the
ocean. We helped set down a net so we can catch turtles and keep track of their well-being. Hannah and I went in the water to make sure the net did not get
tangled. The whole time I was in the water the only thing I was thinking about
was if a shark was going to bite me. I was so scared I kept looking underwater
to make sure nothing was near me. Sharks are definitely one of my worst fears.

On the boat with research assistants Audrey and Pascal.

Sadly there were no turtles caught today which meant Hannah
and I relaxed on the beach along with other volunteers. There is a big group of
volunteers that are actually a family from Canada who won a trip to go to Costa
Rica on this sea turtle excursion. It was a contest through a granola bar
company that serves organic products. There are a few adults and a few
children.

We attempted to search for WiFi everywhere we went but had
no such luck. I honestly am puzzled on how people live without internet
service. Having to quit social media cold turkey is a little rough for me but I
can manage.

Although I did get sunburned, I really enjoyed the day and
cannot wait to start tomorrows work.

Monday, March 16, 2015

Hannah and I started our second day in Costa Rica bright and
early. We had five o-clock alarm but the rooster next door sang just to make
sure we were awake.

Half an hour later we were on our way to the Osa Sea Turtle
Conservation main office. Our driver did not know what the place looked like
and neither did we, so it took a few phone calls to get there. We were greeted by
a young man who offered us coffee. Let me take a moment to recognize that Costa
Rican cup of joe. With only a teaspoon of sugar to go along with it, it is by
far the best cup of coffee I have had in my life. And I’ve had A LOT of coffee.

We met an older man from Oregon at orientation but
unfortunately he was not doing the same project we were so we did not get to
see him afterwards. He is a biologist who has studied sage grouse in Idaho and
later moved to Oregon to work by the coast.

Unfortunately, orientation took longer than planned and we
were rushed out the door, ran a few blocks, jumped in a taxi and headed out to
the bus station. There was a lot of traffic and we missed our bus. This is when
the adventure began.

All the traffic we had to sit through.

We walked up to what looked like the main ticket booth and
asked for a ticket to La Palma which is where our orientation leader told us to
go. The man at the ticket booth pointed us to the direction of another booth
where we could get what we were looking for. The next bus was leaving four
hours from then. We had no other choice but to buy the tickets and call the sea
turtle project people to tell them we were going to be late. Once we purchased
our tickets and got our situation settled we sat at a café that offered WiFi.
Of course the lady working made it very clear that I MUST buy something before
she gave me the password. I went for a slice of bread that looked a lot like
banana bread, it tasted very similar too. I am not sure what it was, but it was
good and worth the WiFi password.

So I sat and ate and sat and ate and ate some more and
finally our bus arrived. Hannah and I both asked: “Este autobus va a La Palma?” (“Does this bus go to La Palma?") When we made sure it was the right bus, we
hopped on and began our journey to La Palma. I fell asleep for the first hour
and half of the ride and when I woke up I felt like I was in a different
country. San Jose is the hustle and bustle of Costa Rica, but once you venture
out everything looks so serene and green. It was truly breathtaking and a
picture cannot even remotely capture the essence of this place.

Hannah and I on the bus to La Palma.

During orientation we were told that we only had to take one
bus to La Palma and it would take us straight there. So you can imagine my
surprise when the man sitting next to me tells me that we are getting off soon
and switching buses. I of course panicked because how can we be so sure we’ll
get on the right bus again? Well we got off as we were told and waiting along
with everyone else who was on the same bus as us.

I went around asking “La Palma?” and pointing to buses to
see which one it was. We found the bus, hopped on and continued our journey. All
along the way we kept asking “Cuanto tiempo para La Palma?” (“How much time
until La Palma?”) They would tell us either how far away we were in kilometers
or how much time we had left. I would say we asked that question at least once in
the hour. Especially when it started to get dark; Hannah and I were very scared
we were going to miss our stop because it was so dark out and there were no
signs indicating where we were. But we put the faith in our bus driver and two
passengers and they made sure to tell us once we got to La Palma. I think
everyone on that bus was happy when we finally got to La Palma: I am surprised
there was no applause as we exited the bus.

My bed while I stay in La Palma.

I write this as I sit on the edge of my mosquito netted bed
at our host family’s house in La Palma. We are going to have another early
wake-up call and ride bikes down to the area where we’ll be working on the sea
turtles.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Last night I left the Portland rain for my first non-North American international experience. I arrived in Costa Rica approximately eight hours later, where it was 80 degrees and sunny.

Not a bad way to start spring break.

Travel-wise, I consider myself very lucky. Everything went
as smoothly as I could have hoped, especially considering the temporary closure of the San Jose airport Thursday
following the Turrialba volcano’s most powerful eruption in 20 years. The
volcano spewed ash that reached areas approximately 30 miles away. I'm extremely grateful the eruption did not interfere with my flight.

Fast forward a few hours and here I am in Cedros with fellow Murrow student Selena Alvarado. We are staying
the night with our host family, la familia Marchena. Our room has a balcony overlooking the
bustling street below. Bikes and buses roar past and cars honk frequently.

The people have been wonderful and my basic knowledge of
Spanish has already come in quite useful since no one here speaks much
English. A friendly neighbor gave us a tour of the local “naturaleza” or
“environment,” showing us the mango and plantain trees that will bear fruit in
the summer.

Our host mother even showed me some remnants of the ash that
settled on our balcony. She ran a finger over the glass table, showing me how
it was still coated with gray dust.

I have already been surprised by both the cultural
similarities (for example, in the taxi to our host family, the radio blasted
AC/DC. We also passed a Lenovo billboard bearing Ashton Kutcher’s face, and Coca
Cola signs are plentiful) and differences.

One of the differences in Costa Rica that really astounds me
is the sheer amount of fences. Fences line the sides of nearly every road,
only ending where another begins. Most are topped with circles of barbed wire or
even razor wire. The homes in Cedros are all behind gates, also frequently
crowned with wire.

The rules of the road also surprised me, mainly because
there don't seem to be many. Pedestrians cut through traffic to cross the road
– our driver passed two girls waiting on the middle, yellow stripe of a
four-lane road. Cars park half on the side of the road and half on sidewalks. A
merchant had set up a small stand that took up a good portion of one lane. I’m not
sure if blinkers are part of the driving lexicon either. We made it without any
accidents, though.

I was fascinated by the amount of graffiti. All the metal
fences and walls provide a virtually unlimited canvas to graffiti artists. Leaving
the airport, I stared out at the pictures splashed across the landscape. There were some words, but also cartoons and portraits. In Cedros,
the artists seem to favor letters.

Tomorrow, we leave at 6 a.m. for our orientation with the Osa sea turtle project. After an day-long bus ride, we will arrive in Playa Blanca to report on and help with efforts to preserve sea turtles.

There are two things that have taken me by surprise in Costa Rica. In the few hours after arrival I noticed Costa Ricans do not say "adios" or "hasta luego" as I would have guessed in a Central American country. Instead they use the word "ciao" as a salutation of farewell. I have a feeling I will be taking that word back with me to the States and using it often.

The other shocking thing is the driving. I felt I was close to death while in the car with our taxi man. Drivers in Costa Rica do not like speed limits, turn signals or stop signs. However there was no accident--in my short ride. I believe the reason behind this is that everyone is a crazy driver. In the U.S. you have your crazy drivers and your safe drivers. In Costa Rica they are all crazy drivers! Our taxi man was incredibly nice and helpful and he was a SAFE crazy driver.

Aside from culture shock, my traveling companion Hannah Lambert and I got to do a little exploring on our own once we finally arrived at our host family in one piece. We walked around the neighborhood which mainly consists of houses and a few restaurants and convenience stores. As we were walking, we found this beautiful alleyway formed by many trees and bushes. A man in a nearby house saw us admiring the beautiful landscaping. He asked if we wanted to see more plants, so we followed him deeper into the alley and uncovered a variety of different plants, from bamboo to bananas to plants with medicinal properties. There was also a plant that held a special place in my heart. There was a chayote vine which grows a vegetable that reminds me of a squash called chayote. The house I grew up in had a chayote vine alongside the gated fence. I remember when the chayote leaf would dry up, I would grab all the leaves I could and crumble them all up in my small hands. I do not know why I found this so amusing as a kid but I definitely remember enjoying it. I even was tempted to try that today, but I fought the urge to relive that precious childhood memory. It was definitely a little slice of home for me in Costa Rica.

We also got to see a banana tree with bananas growing. Unfortunately they were not ripe enough to eat so we couldn't get a bit of this tasty treat that is main crop in the country.

It's been a great first day in Costa Rica. Tomorrow we head out to Playa Blanca where we will be staying the rest of the week. We will be working on a sea turtle conservation project on the ocean. After a good night's rest I will be ready to take on the next journey in Costa Rica.

Friday, March 13, 2015

A weird question, I know, especially given the lucky
circumstances. After all, I’ve been gifted a free trip – no expense unpaid, no
hidden fees, no additional strings attached. Just the one requirement – I will
report and write, tell a story and describe the issues, using all of the values
and skills I built and learned here.

The Murrow College selected me as one of the 2015 Backpack
Journalism Scholars, both an honor and an opportunity. I am one of a few fortunate
students who gets to soar across the world and test my skills in a location
starkly different from the rolling hills, crackerjack cafes and red brick
academic castles of Pullman, Washington.

My assigned destination is a historical, literary and biological
favorite: Darwin’s Galapagos Islands, the geographic home court for the modern
theory of evolution. Thanks to the college and all its benefactors, I will get
to see species of plants and animals only associated with this isolated
archipelago. Thanks to the college, I will get to meet some of the hardy people
working on the front lines to preserve these rare pieces of global history.
Thanks to the college, I will get to embark on one more globetrotting adventure
before I graduate.

I’m excited for the challenge, the travel, the opportunity
to prove myself. But as I complete pre-trip research, my mind has become
increasingly haunted by this thought:

What can I really do?
What can I really say?

The Galapagos conservation effort involves intricate global
cooperation between governments and interest groups, science and money, lab examination and
fieldwork. Hundreds of diverse, hardworking and nameless souls shoulder the weight
of protecting the incalculable importance of the islands, contributing their
time in science, money, advocacy, government and other fields I can’t even
claim to know.

These are the people whose jobs aren’t explained, whose
missions are too specified to be articulated to the unknowing and uninvolved.
Sure, the larger personalities associated with conserving the islands can come
together and paint the different efforts in layman’s terms.
They did just that for the book Galapagos:
Preserving Darwin’s Legacy, a helpful guide in my own personal research.

But even a project like that, written by the experts, is
forced to reduce the intimidating number of complexities associated with the
islands to superficial terms an outsider like me can understand. Its authors are
people who have spent decades on the ground and in offices around the world
spearheading these different efforts and relationships, and even they struggle
to describe all that goes into protecting the Galapagos.

So again, it begs the question: How can I, as a journalism
student whose biggest scientific achievement is an A- in freshman biology, report on
something so meaningful? I have one week in the islands, and I don’t wish to
squander the opportunity simply enjoying it as a sunburnt tourist. However, I
also don’t want to clock in a routine, glazed-over piece of reportage that is
content to simply tell two sides and the five W’s, disseminating
already-condensed lay knowledge into even simpler terms. Given my limited time and even more limited
knowledge, what can I actually do to service the truth? How can I contribute?

I lobbed the question to Dr. Christine Parent, an
evolutionary ecologist and an assistant professor at the University of Idaho.
Parent has spent more than two years in the field studying endemic land snails
on the Galapagos Islands, where there are more
than 80 different species and subspecies.

Parent was bursting with knowledge – on history,
organizations, projects, and current research. She didn’t have just a single
answer to my inquiry (who would?) and instead chose to paint me a better picture
of the islands as a whole, describing the hook to several interesting
storylines I could explore.

Some I had researched already – like the nasty conflicts between local fishermen and conservation groups on several of the more
populated islands, including San Cristobal, my destination for the week. The locals
want to work, fish and support themselves. Conservationists want fishermen to
stop harvesting resources from the islands’ one-of-a-kind marine ecosystem. And
even though I knew a bit about the issue, Parent managed to layer my basic
ideas with the kind of grounded knowledge one only accumulates by actually
putting their boots on the island’s volcanic dirt.

Others storylines she introduced were completely new to me,
like the recent financial issues plaguing the Charles Darwin Foundation’s
research station on the island of Santa Cruz. A brief surf through the shallow waves of the
web reveals little media coverage on the incident, despite the fact that it has
been the archipelago’s primary research center since 1964. While the
foundation’s press releases report that a recent upswing in donations have
helped the station recover, I have a feeling there’s more story to harvest.

After talking to Parent about the flux of issues flowing
through the islands and the different opportunities to investigate them, I
started to feel a bit better. I’m no expert and never will be, but that
shouldn’t stop me from attempting to widen the sphere of public knowledge about
the islands. I’m hopeful that once I’m down there I’ll be able to focus my
gaze, discover a niche and put any skills I might have to good use. And if I
manage to talk to the right people, read the right research and ask the right
questions, I believe there’s a chance I could bring something of value back for readers.

My paranoia would probably have seemed foolish to a veteran
journalist. A seasoned professional could parachute in and rip a story out of
the landscape, doing his/her job and scoring quality material in the process.
Getting to worry and fret about journalism’s role and purpose in a place like
the Galapagos is a luxury likely afforded by my own youthful idealism. However,
I get to worry about it. That’s part
of the prize. This is my trip, my project, my attempt at writing something
real. And I intend to do just that.

Browse by Country

About the Program

The Murrow Backpack Journalism project enlists smart, dedicated and curious student-journalists to travel into some of the world’s most remote regions to report on stories that count.

These student-journalists are eye-witnesses to world events. They are on-scene where and when the news is being made.

As a backpack journalist, students are outfitted with—and trained in the use of—the latest video, audio and web technology. They’re sent into the field to create television, radio, web and print news reports which are disseminated to broadcast and print organizations throughout the Pacific Northwest.